


Hey, Good Lookin', Whatcha Got Cookin'?

by rsconne



Series: Doin' the Monster Mash [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Baking, Domestic!Clarke, F/F, Fluff, Kitchen Nightmare!Lexa, Modern AU, Pie, Smut, Thanksgiving, Who doesn't like pie? (communists that's who)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-06 00:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12805632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsconne/pseuds/rsconne
Summary: Clarke and Lexa are both stressed about hosting their first family Thanksgiving dinner.  Stress relief hijinks ensue....





	Hey, Good Lookin', Whatcha Got Cookin'?

**Author's Note:**

> *title from Hank Williams, Sr.
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Clarke poked her head into the living room and called over the television, “Hey, Lex, can you come help me for a sec?  I need to check on Bruce.”

Lexa hopped up from the sofa with alacrity and followed her into the kitchen, shaking her head.  “I can’t believe you named the turkey, Clarke.”

Clarke gave her a repressive look over her shoulder.  “I’ve spent the last three days thawing and brining and trussing this sucker, you better believe I named his ass.” 

“You took _pictures_ , Clarke,” Lexa said flatly.  “You created a whole Instagram account for Bruce.  It just feels like you’ve gotten too attached to him.  How are you going to be able to, oh, I don’t know— _eat him_?”  Lexa gave her a doubtful glance and admonished, “Roast with your head, not your heart, Clarke.”      

Clarke brushed her advice aside.  “Uh, hell yeah I’m documenting this shit.  He’s my first turkey, and I want the proof for posterity.  And he’s going to be tender and juicy as fuck,” she insisted, with a determined set to her jaw.  Lexa raised a skeptical eyebrow, but quickly schooled her features into mild agreement when Clarke looked over, as if daring her to argue otherwise.

She handed Lexa two heavy-duty oven mitts and gestured between her and the oven.  “Ok, just like before—you slide the rack out and I’ll lift him out.”

Lexa dutifully put on the mitts and obeyed instructions.  She held the oven rack steady as Clarke heaved the overloaded roasting pan onto the stovetop.  The aroma of roasting bird wafted out of the oven and Lexa’s stomach gurgled involuntarily.  Clarke flashed her an amused smile as she set her own mitts aside.   She shrugged an arm to wipe a trickle of sweat off her cheek with the shoulder of her t-shirt.  It was noticeably warmer in the kitchen due to the oven running full blast all morning, and Clarke was beginning to look a little wilted, despite her tank top and yoga pants.  A few tendrils of hair had escaped her ponytail.  Dampness dotted the back of her neck and her hairline and her face was ruddy from the warmth.  Lexa couldn’t help but follow the flush of color down Clarke’s throat to her chest and the fine sheen of sweat that beaded at her cleavage.  The moisture darkened her top and made it stick to her body in mesmerizing fashion, and Lexa almost didn’t register that Clarke had asked her a question.

“Sorry, what?” Lexa stammered.  Her face heated under the weight of Clarke’s questioning stare.

A blue glint briefly flashed behind Clarke’s eyes, but her face betrayed nothing.  “What do you think?” she asked again.  “Shake hands—” indicating Bruce “—is he done?”

Lexa looked baffled.  “Shake hands?  What?” 

Clarke grasped one of Bruce’s legs with a thumb and forefinger and gingerly wiggled it.  “That’s how you’re supposed to be able to tell if he’s done.  When you can shake hands with him.”  At Lexa’s eyeroll, she said defensively, “What?  That’s how Mom always did it.”

Lexa gave her a pointed look.  “I got you a meat thermometer for a reason, Clarke.”

Clarke huffed.  “ _I know_.”  She rummaged through a drawer muttering _spoilsport_ and _could at least play along_ under her breath until she located the tool in question.  She eyed Bruce critically while she waited for the thermometer to register.  “His baster button has popped, but this says he still needs another 15 degrees.”  She looked at Lexa anxiously.  “What do you think?”

“I think we’ll never hear the end of it if we give Anya salmonella,” Lexa said wryly.

Clarke groaned and let her head fall back.  “I _know_.  But we may have to warm him again if folks are late—my mom already texted to say they’re running behind, and who knows when Raven and Anya will show up.  I don’t want him to get dried out.”  She sighed heavily and looked crossly at the turkey. 

Lexa melted a little bit at the tension on Clarke’s face.  She wrapped her arms around Clarke, her hands still in the oven mitts, and rested her chin on Clarke’s shoulder.  She felt some of the tension drain from Clarke’s body as they quietly contemplated Bruce.  “It’s my first turkey, Lex,” Clarke said plaintively.  “It’s our first time hosting Thanksgiving together, I want it to be good.” 

“Babe, it’s going to be fine.”  Lexa gave her a reassuring squeeze.  “He smells good.  He looks _really_ good,” she added honestly, for in truth, Bruce’s buttery, golden brown skin did look mouthwatering.  “I mean, he’s the size of a small toddler, he probably does need longer,” she pointed out dryly.  “Tell you what, let’s give him ten more minutes.  And if he gets dry, that’s what gravy’s for,” she added practically, bussing a kiss to Clarke’s cheek.          

Lexa once again held the oven rack in place so that Clarke could ease Bruce—now carefully tented with a sheet of aluminum foil—back into the oven.  Her eyes strayed to the lush curve of Clarke’s ass and her taut thighs as she squatted to reposition the turkey.  Her gaze lingered a beat too long, and Clarke caught her staring when she straightened up.  Lexa felt her face going red and she hastily looked away and shed the oven mitts, trying desperately to smother the decidedly not-safe-for-company mental images and urges that Clarke in full domestic glory tended to provoke in her. 

Clarke read the thirst on Lexa’s face as plain as day.  She hid her smile and said, “Is it hot in here?  I hadn’t noticed, but you look a little flushed.”

Lexa cleared her throat and avoided Clarke’s bemused eyes.  She croaked, “It’s a little warm, why don’t I open a window before people get here?”  She turned to the window over the kitchen sink and raised it a few inches, breathing in the brisk outside air and letting it cool her skin and her libido before directing her attention back to Clarke.  “Anything else I can help you with?” she asked hopefully.

Clarke leaned a hip against the counter and wiped her hands on a dish towel.  “It’s really just the turkey I’m worried about, I think everything else is under control.  The mashed potatoes are warming in the crockpot.  I just have to mix up the broccoli casserole and the dressing, but those can’t go in the oven until Bruce comes out, anyway.  Besides,” Clarke continued, her teasing smile belying her stern tone, “we both know that letting you ‘help’ in the kitchen is a recipe for chaos.”

Lexa’s lips twitched.  “I didn’t hear you complaining last time,” she snarked.  She threw up her hands to dodge Clarke’s playful swat with the dish towel.  “In fact,” she went on, her grin spreading, “I think your exact words were, ‘Fuckin’ A, Lexa!’” she finished in an affected breathless voice.  She burst into laughter and warded off a few more blows from Clarke’s towel.

“You’re such a brat,” Clarke complained, but she was laughing as she wrapped an arm around Lexa’s waist and pressed a kiss to her lips.  Clarke raised a mental eyebrow at Lexa’s physical demeanor.   Despite her lighthearted outward deportment, her body radiated anxiety.  “It’s fine, hon, if I need help I’ll let you know,” Clarke assured, releasing her after a quick, one-armed hug.  “Just relax and watch the game.  What’s the score, anyway?”

Lexa looked at her blankly.  “Oh, um…I think…Detroit is winning?” she said weakly.

Clarke laughed.  “You’re not even watching it, are you?”  Lexa shrugged sheepishly.  “Lex, what is it?” Clarke asked with a tiny, worried frown.  “I know I’ve been kind of strung out about the turkey and food and all, but I never meant to stress you out, too.” 

Lexa shook her head vehemently.  “No, Clarke—it’s not you.  It’s…well, you said it yourself: it’s our first time hosting Thanksgiving as a family—yours and mine together.  I just want it to go well.”  She began to pace fitfully around the kitchen.  “You’re in here doing all the work, I feel like I should be helping instead of sitting on my ass watching TV.  I mean, I’ve cleaned everything I can think of, and the table’s set, and I arranged the flowers and the centerpiece—”

“Lex—”

“—just the one candle, I promise—”

“Lexa—”

“—and your mom _always_ makes me nervous, and I know I make a mess in the kitchen, but I just need something to _do_.”

“ _Lexa_.”  A devious plan formed in Clarke’s mind as she watched Lexa pad around the kitchen, spinning out of control.  She seized Lexa’s hand and made her stop and look at her.  “Babe, stop.  You’ve done a ton of work, too.”  Clarke exhaled slowly.  “We’re both way too worked up about this.  It’s just dinner.  We’ve had guests over for dinner a million times.”  Clarke stroked the side of Lexa’s hand with her thumb.  Her touch seemed to ground Lexa and she let out a shaky breath, too.  “Look, I think there _is_ something I could use your help with.”

Lexa perked up.  “Yeah?”

Clarke nodded.  “Mmhmm.  Yeah, I’ll definitely need a hand,” she promised with a peculiar note in her voice.  “After Bruce comes out.”  She shooed Lexa out of the kitchen.  “He’s almost done.  Let me finish getting the casserole and dressing ready and I’ll call you when it’s time to take him out.”   

Lexa agreed and headed back into the living room to wait.  Clarke, meanwhile, finished the last bit of prep for the broccoli casserole and dressing.  She set the dishes aside and scrubbed down the kitchen table, scheming as she worked.   

_You want something to do?  Oh, I’ve got something for you to do._

A few short minutes later, the timer dinged and Clarke summoned Lexa back into the kitchen to help remove Bruce.  A final thermometer check confirmed that he had, indeed, reached a satisfactory temperature.  Clarke wrapped him tightly in foil and swaddled him in a towel and set him on the counter out of the way.  Lexa washed her hands and stood looking expectantly at Clarke. 

Clarke swept her eyes lazily over Lexa’s body.  She ran a finger down the front of Lexa’s crimson sweater.  “First, you’ll want to take this off.”  She caught Lexa’s suspicious eye and said innocently, “This might get messy.”  Lexa quickly shucked off her sweater and laid it aside, leaving her in just a white t-shirt.

“What are we making, Clarke?” Lexa asked in a low voice, starting to pick up on Clarke’s not-so-subtle cues. 

Clarke drew her over to the table and said, “You’re going to help me make a pie.  Grandma and Indra are bringing pumpkin and pecan, and I know you’re not a big fan of those, so I thought I’d make you an apple pie.”

Lexa’s face softened at the sentiment.  “Clarke, you—”

“Shush.”  Clarke silenced her with a quick, firm kiss on the lips.  “I want to.  But you have to help.”  She set a bowl of apples and an empty bowl and paring knife down on the table in front of Lexa.  “I need your knife skills.  You peel and slice while I make the dough.” 

Lexa got to work peeling while Clarke assembled the flour and other ingredients for the dough.  Clarke felt Lexa’s eyes on her as she bent over to retrieve items from lower cupboards.  She exaggerated her posture, thrusting her ass upward and giving Lexa an eyeful.  She turned to set the ingredients on the table and smirked to herself at the telltale spots of color on Lexa’s cheeks and ears.  She opened an upper cabinet and made a show of fruitless stretching to reach the upper shelf, all the while letting her shirt ride up and exposing a tantalizing sliver of skin between the waistband of her yoga pants and the hem of her top.  “Hey, Lex, can you help me out?  I can’t reach the cinnamon and nutmeg.” 

Lexa set her knife down and came over, but Clarke didn’t move aside.  She stood her ground, forcing Lexa to press up against her and stand on tiptoe to reach the shelf.  Lexa gamely tried to keep her focus on searching out the proper spices, but the angle and closeness gave her a particularly impressive view down Clarke’s shirt.  The soft pressure of Clarke’s boobs against her own body only furthered the distraction.  Her pulse ticked up, and Clarke didn’t miss the faint bob of her throat as she swallowed.

“Here you go, Clarke,” Lexa said thickly, handing her the bottles.  Clarke heard Lexa’s intake of breath when she let her fingers brush over Lexa’s. 

“Thanks, babe,” she said huskily, her eyes sparkling with mischief.  She and Lexa both knew where this little game was headed, but Clarke resolved to push it a little further to see what it would take to make Lexa lose control.  She broke the contact and felt Lexa noticeably deflate as she withdrew back to the table. 

Lexa’s little pile of apple slices grew as Clarke measured out the dry ingredients in a large bowl and added in the shortening and eggs.  As she worked, Clarke marveled at Lexa’s powers of concentration and reflected that putting a knife in her hands was perhaps not the wisest course of action, because Lexa’s eyes flicked far more often to Clarke’s hands than to her own.  Clarke scattered a layer of flour across the table and set the container of flour aside.  “Keeps the dough from sticking when I roll it out,” she explained in answer to Lexa’s inquisitive look.  “That looks like enough apples.  Have you ever kneaded out dough?”

“I’ve watched you do it,” Lexa blurted and then blushed.   

A wicked smile spread across Clarke’s face.  “Then you’ve got the idea.”  She motioned for Lexa to put her knife down and come closer.  She maneuvered so that she was standing behind Lexa with her front pressed flush against Lexa’s back.  Clarke reached her arms around Lexa’s body, took Lexa’s hands in her own, and put them in the bowl of flour and egg mixture.  “Just work your hands in it,” she directed, her hot breath tickling Lexa’s ear.  The gooey mixture squelched through their fingers and made a sticky mess, but slowly resolved into a paste and then a stiffer consistency.  “Yeah, like that,” Clarke whispered against Lexa’s jaw.  “This should be easy for you, you’ve got such good hands.”  She stopped kneading the dough and instead stroked Lexa’s hands and wrists as she worked.  She closed her eyes and buried her face in Lexa’s silky hair, breathing in her shampoo and beneath it, Lexa’s own clean scent.  She subtly ground her hips against Lexa’s ass.  Clarke realized that she’d lost control of her own game, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Clarke took her hands out of the bowl and set them on Lexa’s hips.  “That’s probably enough,” she murmured, “don’t want to overwork it.”  Lexa shivered as Clarke nosed into her neck and trailed wet kisses down the side of her throat.  Clarke’s hands dipped lower, seeking out and unzipping Lexa’s jeans, then slipping inside to cup Lexa over her underwear.

“ _Clarke,”_ Lexa gasped, and arched into her body at the touch.  “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving you someone to do,” Clarke replied silkily.  Her chuckle rumbled against the back of Lexa’s neck at the slick she found already saturating her underpants.  “Someone _really_ likes helping in the kitchen,” she teased.  She palmed Lexa firmly and Lexa groaned and turned in her arms to seek out Clarke’s lips for a heated, dirty kiss.

Their mouths came together with urgency as their pent-up tensions worked their way to the fore.  Clarke felt Lexa trying to assert control, and she shook her head and broke the kiss.  “Uh uh,” she whispered between kisses.  “Let me, baby,” she insisted.  She urged Lexa up onto the table and stepped between her legs.  Tongues twisted together and teeth nipped as their kisses grew more intense.  Their hands roamed as they kissed, peeling away each others’ shirts and provoking groans at the first graze of skin on heated skin.  Clarke kissed a messy track past the ridge of Lexa’s clavicle and over the swell of her chest, unfastening and tossing aside her bra as she went.  Lexa sank her fingers into Clarke’s hair when she reached her breast.  Clarke took her time, swirling first one taut nipple and then the other with her tongue, switching it up with a gentle rake of the teeth or a determined suck.  Lexa hissed at the sensations and thrust her breast deeper into Clarke’s mouth to urge her onward.  By the time Clarke decided she had lavished sufficient attention on Lexa’s boobs, Lexa was openly keening for more.

Clarke pushed Lexa back onto her elbows and teased her way down her stomach, using her tongue to draw out wriggling giggles from the ticklish spots she knew so well.  Her heart clenched as she glanced up Lexa’s body, taking in the quiver of her flexed abs, the faint jiggle of her breasts, their hard points rosy and shiny from Clarke’s mouth, and the bright flash of her teeth as she laughed under Clarke’s torturous tongue.  Clarke prompted Lexa to lift her hips so that she could slide her jeans and underwear off, then dropped to her knees and settled Lexa’s legs over her shoulders.  She scooted Lexa’s ass a little closer to the table’s edge and spread her thighs wider.  She drank in the small thatch of dark hair and the slick sheen of arousal that greeted her and invited her to sink her tongue deep into Lexa’s center.  Lexa’s breathing went shallow and she trembled with anticipation as Clarke ran her hands lightly up the inside of Lexa’s thighs, letting her thumbs caress as they went.  She wasted no further time with teasing, but dove right in with broad, slow licks, and Lexa gave a loud groan of relief.   

Despite Lexa’s evident enjoyment, her body still felt tense.  Clarke lifted her head away to check in—prompting a disgruntled whine—and realized that Lexa’s ass had little purchase on the table and she was struggling to hold herself up on her elbows.  “Babe,” she urged gently, kissing Lexa’s inner thigh, “just lay back.  Relax.  I’m gonna catch you when you fall.”  Lexa rolled her eyes and huffed, but Clarke gave her a pointed look and waited for her to settle all the way onto the table before lowering her mouth back between her legs. 

This time, Lexa was completely pliant under her touch, and Clarke hummed with pleasure as she kissed and lapped her way through her heat.  She soon found the rhythm that Lexa craved and steadily worked her up, pulling forth a series of pants and curses and pleas, until Lexa twined a hand in her hair and rutted her hips with intent against Clarke’s mouth.  Her release hit with a beautiful, racking shudder, eyes screwed shut, heels digging into Clarke’s back, and Clarke’s name echoing from her lips. 

As Lexa came down from her orgasm, Clarke slowly kissed her way back up Lexa’s body, taking particular pride in the sweat beaded at her hairline, the unconscious, soft smile on her lips, and the sated, boneless sprawl of her body across the table.  Lexa opened her eyes when Clarke kissed first one cheek and then the other and her smile spread.  Clarke’s breath hitched, but before she could get out _I love you_ , Lexa pulled Clarke down for a proper kiss, throwing her off balance and causing her to collapse onto Lexa’s chest with an _oof_.  Clarke fell happily into the kiss, relishing the smooth, warm expanse of Lexa’s skin and the soft pressure of Lexa’s breasts against her own.

Lexa broke the kiss with a contented sigh.  “ _Fuck_ , Clarke,” she breathed, still in her dreamy afterglow.

Clarke smirked.  “Judging from that expression, I’d say I just did,” she said smugly.  Lexa made a face at her, and Clarke laughed.  “Admit it, you needed that,” she teased.

Lexa stretched as best she could under the weight of Clarke’s body and hummed in agreement.  “Babe, I’ll never _not_ need _that_ ,” she declared fervently, giving Clarke a wink.  “But you were right.  Right now, I think Anya and your mom could get into a knife fight in the middle of dinner and I so wouldn’t care.”

Clarke’s smirk broadened.  “What was that?  Can you say that again?”

Lexa snorted.  “You were right,” she said faux-grudgingly.

Clarke sighed theatrically.  “Hearing you say that never gets old.”

Lexa narrowed her eyes.  “Someone’s feeling a little smug.” 

Clarke arched an eyebrow and countered, “ _Someone_ couldn’t remember her own name a minute ago, so I’d say I have grounds.”

Lexa took advantage of Clarke’s distracted banter to unhook her bra.  She carefully levered herself onto her elbows and then into a sitting position, raising Clarke up with her.  She drew her mouth back down and muttered, “Shut up, Clarke,” before connecting their lips hungrily.  She kissed Clarke thoroughly, seizing the opportunity to slip her bra the rest of the way off.  She took one of Clarke’s breasts in a flour-covered hand and, breaking the kiss but keeping darkening eyes locked on Clarke’s, lowered her head and drew its hard point into her mouth and suckled.

“ _Shit_ , Lex!” Clarke gasped and clutched Lexa’s head to her.  Lexa deliberately scraped Clarke’s nipple with her teeth and Clarke felt the slight sting all the way to her toes.  Teasing Lexa and then getting her off had gotten Clarke impossibly turned on: the merest sensation increased the slippery heat at her core, and she ached for Lexa’s touch. 

Lexa released Clarke’s nipple with a wet pop and said, “Clarke?”

“Mmhmm?” Clarke exhaled, mind fogged from the rasp of Lexa’s tongue across her boob.   

Lexa stopped tweaking Clarke’s breasts with her mouth and fingers long enough to growl against her skin, “Take off your pants, ‘cause I really want to fuck you.” 

The ragged timbre of Lexa’s voice shot a jolt of heat right between Clarke’s legs, and she hastened to comply with shaking hands.  Lest she seem too eager, she threw a smirk at Lexa as she bent to edge her pants and underwear down her legs and sassed, “Thought your plan was to bend me over something.” 

“Maybe my knee,” Lexa retorted, her hands dropping to Clarke’s ass.  Clarke sucked in a sharp breath and _blushed_.  Lexa looked up at her in shocked surprise.  “ _Clarke--_ really?”  Her cheeks pinked and her voice grew huskier.  “You’re, uh, into that?  How did I not know this?”

Clarke looked stunned herself.  “It—I—me neither,” she stuttered.  “It never exactly…occurred to me before.”  Lexa raised a dubious eyebrow and hummed noncommittally.  Clarke gave a strangled cry as Lexa’s hand dipped lower, raking through the soaked patch of curls at the juncture of Clarke’s thighs and slipping between her parted legs to tease through the liberal coating of silky wetness she found there. 

Lexa slid off the table and got to her feet, still kissing Clarke, touching her breasts, her cheek, her neck, trailing her talented fingers across Clarke’s most sensitive flesh, but not going inside.  Each touch stoked the fire and drew needy whimpers from Clarke, yet withheld the promise of relief.  Clarke was a quivering mess, on the verge of begging for Lexa’s fingers.  Lexa grinned wickedly at her failing composure.  She sucked a line of kisses along Clarke’s jawline and whispered hotly in her ear, “Bend over for me?”  Her eyebrows lifted in unspoken question. 

Clarke’s brain nearly short-circuited.  She choked out, “ _Fuck,_ Lex.”  She nodded vigorously, turned around, and draped her chest over the kitchen table and braced her arms. 

Lexa just stared in awe at the tableau before her, the creamy expanse of Clarke’s back and ass on display, her legs spread wide and her center glistening with desire.  Lexa smoothed her hands reverently over Clarke’s firm ass cheeks and leaned down to cover Clarke’s back with her own body.  “God, baby, you are so beautiful,” Lexa whispered, pressing kisses to her shoulder blade.

“Lexa,” Clarke whined in reedy frustration, “ _please_ touch me.”  Lexa’s lips quirked up in a satisfied grin, but she stopped tormenting Clarke and gave her what she needed.  She stroked through Clarke’s wetness once, twice, slicking up her fingers before finally sliding slowly, carefully inside.  Clarke released a deep, guttural moan that turned into a string of curses as Lexa began to move inside her.  Lexa quickened her pace, plunging knuckle-deep as Clarke’s ass rose up to meet her thrusts.  Lexa littered tiny kisses and the occasional deeper, sucking bite over Clarke’s neck and shoulders as she fucked her.  She could tell from Clarke’s desperate pants that she was close after hardly any time at all.  Her free hand crept around Clarke’s hip, finding her clit and rubbing tiny circles over it as she continued to pump inside.  At that, Clarke convulsed with an incoherent shout.  Her whole body stiffened and tendons stood out in her neck, and she greedily rode Lexa’s fingers until she slackened with release.  Lexa’s fingers slowed, working her through her climax and easing off her clit, before finally gently pulling out.  She scattered kisses and soft murmurs of encouragement and praise against Clarke’s sweat-dampened back. 

“Oh my God, Lexa,” Clarke spoke into the table, unable to move her body or even lift her head.  “That was…I can’t feel my legs.”

Lexa laughed and glowed with pride.  She helped Clarke turn over and shift up to sit on the table.  She stood between Clarke’s spread legs and curled her arms around Clarke’s shoulders.  They tipped their foreheads together and held each other quietly, each breathing the other in, minds finally uncluttered and at peace.  Lexa joined her lips to Clarke’s and they kissed for a long while, soft, unhurried kisses that lacked the urgency of moments ago.   

The stark peal of the doorbell cut through their contented haze.  Clarke sat bolt upright and looked at the clock.  “Shit!  Somebody’s early, they’re not supposed to get here for another half hour!”  They surveyed each other and the kitchen in panic: both of them naked and sweaty, flour liberally streaking their faces and bodies and dusting their sex-ravaged hair; flour smeared upon the table, the open canister knocked over and flour spilled and tracked across the floor; sliced apples and their peels scattered across the table and floor.  

The doorbell rang again.  Lexa hastily wiped as much flour as she could from her face and tamed her hair as best she could.  She yanked her t-shirt over her head, forgoing her bra for the moment, and tugged on her underwear and jeans, hopping on first one foot and then the other on her way to the door.  “I’ll stall whoever it is while you get dressed,” she called over her shoulder.  She wrenched open the door just as the bell rang for a third time to find Raven and Anya on the doorstep.  Their eyebrows slowly arched upward as they processed Lexa’s disheveled appearance.

“You’re early,” Lexa blurted. 

Anya cocked her head to the side.  “Wow, that’s some stellar hospitality you’ve got, Lex.  I’m really feeling the love.  Are you feeling the love, Raven?”

Lexa sighed and waved an apologetic hand.  “Sorry, sorry.  We weren’t expecting folks just yet, we’re still, um…getting ready.  Come on in.”  She ushered them inside and set the bottle of wine Anya had brought in the dining room while they hung their coats in the entryway closet.  She indicated the foil-wrapped dish in Raven’s hands.  “I can take that, you guys have a seat and, uh, watch the game.”

Raven gave her an odd look and brushed her off.  “No, no—it’s a surprise,” she said with a devilish gleam in her eye.  “But it needs to be refrigerated until it’s time to eat.  Is Clarke in the kitchen?” she asked, pushing past Lexa and heading around the corner without waiting for an answer.  “Hey, Clarke!”

“No, Raven—wait!”  Lexa tried in vain to catch her, skidding into the kitchen right on her heels, with Anya trailing along behind.  Raven stopped short in the doorway and took in the mess.  Given the slight time advantage, Clarke was marginally less tousled than Lexa, but not by much.  She had discarded the apples, but the room was still awash in flour. 

“Raven, hi!” Clarke chirped, a little too brightly.  “And Anya!  Wow, didn’t expect you guys quite so soon.” 

“Yeah, we got that already,” Raven commented drily.  “What the hell happened in here?”  Her sharp eyes missed little.  

“We were, uh, that is, Clarke was showing me how to make a pie,” Lexa explained weakly.  She gestured at Clarke from behind Raven’s back, mouthing, _where’s my bra?_ and trying to point discreetly at her chest.  Clarke’s eyes widened and she shook her head cluelessly.

“Yes!  Apple pie!  Lexa’s favorite!” Clarke chimed in.

Raven snickered.  “Whatever, Griff.  I probably do not want to know.  Here,” she said, holding out her dish with both hands. “This needs to stay cold.”  Clarke took it and turned toward the fridge.  Raven let out a loud whoop and she and Anya began laughing hysterically. 

Clarke whipped back around.  “What the hell, Rae?” but Raven and Anya were laughing too hard to answer.  Clarke looked at Lexa, who had slapped one hand over her bright red face. 

“Your pants, Clarke,” she muttered.  Clarke frowned in puzzlement.  She looked down and twisted around, checking herself—and discovered a set of white handprints clearly outlined on both butt cheeks. 

Clarke’s cheeks pinked and she abandoned the charade.  “Ok, fine,” she huffed.  “We were both pretty stressed— _you_ try roasting a 22-pound turkey and hosting your family and in-laws—and things kind of got out of hand.”

“Oh, from the look of things, I’d say Lexa had the situation well in hand,” Anya cracked.

“Yeah, Clarke,” Raven chortled, “I had no idea you were such a hands-on teacher.” 

Anya elbowed Raven lightly in the side, “Lexa always did like to learn by doing.”  She and Raven descended into fresh peals of hilarity as Lexa and Clarke watched with flaming faces.

“You guys are terrible!” Lexa groused. 

Anya wiped tears from her eyes and slowly reclaimed her composure.  “Between this and Halloween, I think I’m set with blackmail material for all eternity.” 

“ _Anya_!  Don’t you dare say anything in front of my mom!” Clarke hissed furiously, shooting a protective glance at Lexa.  “Not today!” 

Anya just grinned.  “Oh, relax, Blondie.  I’m not completely evil.  Still, if I have a little too much wine….” she shrugged, smirking at Lexa.  “You’ll never know when the other shoe might drop….”

Lexa rolled her eyes and moved to Clarke’s side.  “Do your worst, Ahn, I don’t care,” she said defiantly.   She took Clarke’s hand in hers and added quietly, smiling down at her, “It was totally worth it.” 

Clarke beamed back at her with love in her eyes.  “So true.”  She leaned in and kissed her, ignoring their audience.

After a few seconds, Anya cleared her throat.  “Ok, ok.  Break it up.”  Lexa and Clarke reluctantly disengaged.  Anya took them each by a shoulder and firmly nudged them toward the hall.  “You two go shower and get changed.  Raven and I will clean up your shitshow before anyone else gets here.”  Lexa started to protest, but Anya shooed her away.  “What are sisters for?” she scolded affectionately.  “Go on, scat.”  As they hurried down the hall, she shouted after them with amusement in her voice, “Hey, Lex, where do you keep the bleach?”

By the time Clarke and Lexa made themselves presentable again, the rest of the family had started to arrive and they busied themselves with greetings and hugs and organizing the growing feast.  Clarke’s mother, Abby, and her grandmother were suitably impressed with Bruce, and Clarke glowed under their praise.  Lexa and Anya roughhoused goodnaturedly with their younger brother, Aden, trashtalking with him and their father, Gustus, in anticipation of after dinner family football shenanigans.  Once everyone had arrived, Lexa helped Clarke carve Bruce, taking the requisite photographic evidence—she thought she saw a tear escape Clarke’s eye, but she couldn’t be sure—and they all sat down at the groaning dining table. 

The meal went on for a long while, as almost everyone opted for seconds (in Aden’s case, thirds).  Once Lexa had eaten her fill, she sat back quietly and let the family hubbub and sarcastic banter wash over her.  She stole a glance at Clarke, beside her, and found a similarly contented expression on her face.  She reached for Clarke’s hand under the table and gave it a little congratulatory squeeze, and the two of them shared a private smile. 

After everyone had finished with the main courses, they cleared away the leftovers and brought out dessert.  Raven disappeared into the kitchen while Clarke sliced her grandmother’s pumpkin pie and Indra’s pecan pie.  She returned moments later with her mystery dessert and removed the foil with a gleeful flourish.  “We made a chocolate pie,” Anya said as Raven cut it into portions. 

“Yeah, we thought chocolate pie was Lexa’s favorite,” Raven piped up cheekily, “but it turns out she likes a different kind of pie.”  Anya and Raven had matching, filthy grins.  Lexa choked and turned crimson.  She masked her embarrassment with a large gulp of water.  The other adults at the table simply looked perplexed.

“Oh, thanks for reminding me, _Raven_ ,” Clarke said, shooting daggers at Raven.  She turned to the sideboard and produced another beautifully crimped pie with a perfect golden crust.  “Lexa’s favorite, apple,” she said smoothly, flashing a wink at a relieved, but somewhat puzzled, Lexa.  She sat back down and conversation and appreciative noises resumed as the desserts went round the table.

Lexa turned to Clarke.  “Not that I’m not grateful, babe, but where did this come from?” she said in a hushed voice.  “We didn’t exactly finish earlier.”

Clarke smirked back sinfully.  “Oh, we finished all right.”  Lexa couldn’t stop herself from snickering.  “I made this one yesterday while you were working in the yard.  I wanted to make sure you had your favorite.”  

Touched, Lexa leaned over to kiss her, a quick peck on the lips.  “That’s so sweet, babe.”  She angled her head to murmur in Clarke’s ear so that no one else could hear.  “But I already did— _you’re_ my favorite dessert, Clarke.”  


End file.
